The Two of Us (28 page)

As we leave, Shaun bristles at the sight of a large group of youths in a huddle, lighting a suspicious-looking cigarette.
One looks over and begins approaching menacingly. Then he leaps about shouting, ‘It’s Steve’s mum.’ They know every nuance
of
EastEnders
. Shaun is thrilled as I sign autographs for the growing crowd. He later describes his trips with me as the ‘highlight of
his life’. He deserves more.

I have one more call to make. I do not hold out great hopes for it, but it turns out to be pure gold. The will solicitors
can only give me one document – the grant of probate for Dorothy’s will, dated 14 June 1974. It says that she had died intestate
as a ‘single woman’. The resonance of that phrase strikes me as so lonely. There is an address for Dorothy at the time of
her death on 2 February 1974 in Longsight. It is a forlorn hope that anyone will remember her in 2002, but on Shaun’s insistence
– he is now totally involved in the quest – we go to Leedale Road. I knock on the door with little expectation. A gaunt man
of about fifty opens it: ‘Hello Sheila. Come in.’

24 July

Am in Belfast having agreed to do a radio play with an
all-Irish cast in a Tipperary accent. Am I mad? But with
their help I got there. And over the many drinks after the
recording, they christened me Sheila O’Hancock. I do love
Irish actors. I’ve enjoyed it. Feel guilty saying that. But it
has been good to be Sheila, who is quite a good actress,
rather than the grieving widow of a famous man.

It is not the usual ‘I’ve seen you on the telly’ recognition. This is the son of Dolly’s favourite sister, Cissie, short for
Cecilia, same name as my only aunt. This house is where Dolly had been living when she died in St Anne’s Hospice. Stuart Simpson
(the name on the bill being Mrs C. Simpson) has personal memories, some from conversations with his mum who died recently,
that fill in numerous gaps in my knowledge of John’s mother. He also has some photographs that tell me more than anything.

Up until now I have only seen one photo of John’s mother. In it she looked oldish, plump, with stiff-lacquered hair – a fairly
ordinary woman. Now here are two of the young Dolly. A slim figure striding along the wall of the vinegar factory, critically
eyeing the chubby queen of the Whit-walk. In front her two boys wearing their best grey flannel suits. She is wearing an elegant,
long-jacketed suit, teetering heels and maybe a velvet bow on the back of her long blonde hair and gloves. She looks a knockout
compared with the rest of the women. Poignantly, judging by the ages of the boys, it was taken just before she left. In another
family wedding photo she has on the same suit, but this time with sexy ankle-straps, a witty bow-tie and a cheeky hat. It
is not her wedding but she has taken centrestage. She is the star and the bride is nowhere. John is in the corner being held
affectionately by one of the men. What a wrench it must have been to lose touch with this huge family of Ablotts. Significantly,
John Senior is in neither picture; nor is Ray, but he was probably playing football which would take precedence over a soppy
wedding.

There are later photos of the older Dolly that I have seen before, but this time I notice she always has her shoes off. All
that standing behind bars in unsuitable shoes? Or a gesture of abandon? The most poignant photograph is one found in her handbag
after her death. It is a faded, crumpled Polaroid of herself and John on the visit I persuaded him to make. She is wearing
a jaunty aquamarine blouse with ruffled neckline and bare, aging arms. Her still-blonde hair is stiff from the hairdresser’s.
Her hand is loosely linked in John’s arm for the photo. His hand holds a cigarette and does not touch her. His handsome face
is unsmiling and haunted and she looks tentative. They do not look like a mother and son, although their features show that
they are. It was taken in the garden of the house I am now in.

There is also a photo of John as a toddler in Stowell Street perched on the handlebars of a tricycle, playing on the cobbles
with four other more typical ragamuffins.

John looks like the child of an aristocrat. An immaculate smock suit such as you buy in Belgravia, clean white socks and a
shining, well-cut head of hair. She really turned him out well. So why on earth did she desert them all?

3 August

Braved the Proms. Took poor Jo. It was Rachmaninoff’s
Third Piano Concerto. We sat there sobbing. Out loud. Will
I not be able to go to concerts any more? It was such a
shared thing. Elbows pressing against each other at the best
bits, orgasmic experiences, dissecting the perf afterwards,
trying to understand New Music, ‘Oh noo not for me.’
Obviously Jo and I are useless together. Embarrassing to
behold.

An actor has to fill in the details of a role that the script does not give. We piece together, or invent, our character’s
back story before the play begins, to deepen the interpretation of the particular moment in their life that we are showing.
However unpleasant that character may seem to the audience, the actor has to empathise, if not sympathise. I will attempt
to get inside Dolly’s skin as if I were going to play her and try to understand what John never could or would.

The births of the ten Ablotts were spread over twenty years. The eldest had to help look after the youngest. Sometimes supper
was a bag of chips between them, or anything they could scrounge. Dolly, being a lively kid, was especially good at this.
There was no question of further education. Dolly had to leave school at fourteen, although she was as bright as a button.
She would give some of her wages to her mum and any of her brothers or sisters who needed it. They pooled their resources.
First up was best dressed. A girl’s best chance of betterment was to hook a good bloke. She had to look smart.

When things became scarce during the war Dolly painted her legs with gravy browning and drew a pencil line up the back for
seams. She used beetroot juice on her lips and soot round her eyes, and kept her hair in metal Dinkie curlers, concealed under
a turban, except when she went out on the town. Once a week she touched up her roots with peroxide and styled her hair after
the stars she saw at the local cinema – Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth were her favourites. She and her sisters cut a dash
when they hit Belle Vue. Wherever Dolly went she attracted attention. Her clothes were daring and stood out in the crowd.
She once wangled some precious nylons out of a GI stationed in the park and flaunted her lovely legs. There was something
about her. She wanted to have fun, but often she had to look after the baby. Why the hell did her mum keep having kids?

One day a tall, good-looking youth asked her to dance. They revolved around the wooden floor under the stars with the lake
illuminated beside it. Like James Stewart off the films, he was gentle and shy so she made all the going. He didn’t say much,
but when he did he made her laugh. No one could have been less like her father. They agreed to meet again. After a few dates
he introduced her to his family. They were warm and fun to be with. His mother cooked a wonderful meal and they all had a
sing-song round the piano. Jack was besotted with her. She had never been so loved. She felt like a film star – the centre
of his world. Her bloody father messed up the engagement party, but once she was married she would move in near the Thaws
and be shot of him and having to look after everyone.

Her little house in Stowell Street was her pride and joy. She scrubbed her front stoop, as she saw the other Thaws do, and
cooked imaginatively with the meagre rations. For the first few months she acted the perfect housewife and, whenever Jack
was free, they went out to town or Belle Vue. She understood when Jack got moody about the horrors he was facing on the bomb
sites, but she could easily cheer him up. She was nineteen and sexy and, despite the war, full of hope.

4 August

I like the vicar from St Martin-in-the-Fields, Nick Holtam.
Getting the religious content right is tricky. John used to
have what he called ‘my God’ but never went to church.
I told him I didn’t want stuff about meeting in another
place and he emailed me this lovely piece not to be used
in the service but just for me, which was used at the funeral
of the theologian John Taylor. It was apparently a prayer
from somebody just before the outbreak of the First World
War.

‘
To have given me self-consciousness for an hour in a
world so breathless for beauty would have been enough.
But Thou has preserved it within me for twenty years and
more, and has crowned it with the joy of this summer of
summers. And so, come what may, whether life or death,
and, if death, whether bliss unimaginable or nothingness,
I thank Thee and bless Thy name.’

When, after only three months of marriage, Dolly fell pregnant it terrified her. She dreaded the drudgery of her mother’s
life. She went to her mother’s house to have the baby and it was a difficult and painful birth. She had to give up work and
Jack started doing even more night shifts to make up the gap in their keep. She had never slept in a bed on her own in crowded
Norman Grove, so she would take little John into bed with her for company. She enjoyed dressing him up and parading him in
front of the neighbours. By the time he was toddling and more independent she began to love her sweet-natured babe. She got
her figure back and managed to work a morning shift in the pub at the Longsight Gate of Belle Vue, where they let her bring
him with her. She was a good barmaid and she enjoyed it. Life wasn’t so bad.

Then, at twenty-one, she fell pregnant again. Clumsy birth control was useless for someone as passionate and impetuous as
she. Was her life going to be endless children and housework? Jack was now sent away to work in the mines and she was all
on her own with a new baby and a toddler, tied to the house. The Thaws were supportive but they would never understand this
burning desire to improve herself. She knew she was known as a two-bit millionaire and was thought to dress too tartily for
a young mother. She knew she wasn’t cut out for looking after kids, she found it boring and exhausting, but she was good at
every job she did and full of ideas. People always commented on her ability. She never had a problem getting work.

One of her bosses asked her to go away with him. He said he loved her and he had a bob or two. He promised her a future with
him where she could provide for her boys and have more freedom. Always impulsive, she went. Only to discover that what he
wanted was a dirty weekend. She had to return and face the street again. Jack was a kind man and, in spite of everything,
adored her. He took her back and they decided she would be happier if they lived with her family. There was always someone
to keep an eye on the kids there so Dolly could go out a bit more and take on longer hours at the pub. So off they went to
make a fresh start. Dolly brushed up well, despite her two kids. The spirit of the war led to flirtations with one or two
men. What the hell; we might all be dead tomorrow. Jack was always so tired and grumpy. There were endless rows between him
and her father, which ended with the bastard putting her few sticks of furniture out in the front and telling them to bugger
off. They traipsed off to Wythenshawe, a dirty flat in a slum area.